


i don't want to wait til the next life

by susanpevensie (steelthighsvoideyes)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Angst, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21610759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelthighsvoideyes/pseuds/susanpevensie
Summary: Claude finds himself at an impasse, a crossroads he never expected to come across. He knows his path too well, but fate is a cruel beast that has clawed out his heart and given it to the only one who cannot follow him.
Relationships: Petra Macneary/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 13
Kudos: 84





	i don't want to wait til the next life

**Author's Note:**

> so. this fic is inspired by Claude and Petra's support conversations and is set right after their A support, which is so gushingly sweet and romantic that i died. (in fact, all their supports are that level of soft and sweet. like wow, they really just Understand each other.)
> 
> anyway, i had this epiphany that no matter the ending, Claude and Petra always become King of Almyra and Queen of Brigid, so logistically there's no true way for them to actually get married and be each other's king/queen. 
> 
> and i have a crush on both of them, so that's how this fic happened. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy and scream about these stupid hets with me! please excuse any typos or grammar mistakes.

Dusk settles across the monastery in a twilight that could easily trick one into believing Fodlan isn’t currently tearing itself apart. Claude can’t help but smile at its unsettling nature as he makes his way down the open corridors of Garreg Mach. In a way, he appreciates that nature couldn’t care less about mankind’s conflicts. They’re rather insignificant at the end of all things, and this thought helps clear Claude’s mind of the tumultuous whirlwind of a day he’s had. 

Mankind may be insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but war takes its toll nonetheless. 

One by one, lingering pressures of the day’s war council sessions, diplomatic endeavors, inventory and budget meetings, and scouting reports slip away until all that’s left is the fleeting idea that Petra would probably appreciate the irony of a peaceful sunset amidst a bloody era. 

Fleeting, but enough of a presence to anchor the echo of an earlier conversation that Claude was rather hoping would leave his thoughts. It’s tickled his conscience and whispered in his head every spare moment he had to breathe, and Claude curses himself for having inadvertently fed it.

He turns around a corner and lengthens his stride just so, not wanting to appear in a rush though he is eager for the privacy of his room. He’s exhausted is all and seeks the company of the only person who he trusts to decompress around--himself. 

Claude pushes open the door to his old dorm room and throws himself face first onto his mattress once the door closes, taking a deep breath and releasing it on a controlled count. He then flips over onto his back, kicks off his boots, and stares at the bare stone ceiling. 

_“I am not knowing about the future. But my perfection...my perfect husband could be him. And if he gives refusal, I will be tying him up and dragging him home.”_

Now that he’s in the comfort of his room and away from anyone’s gaze, Claude closes his eyes and allows himself to finally succumb to his memory of that morning. He’d gone on an early morning walk on the monastery grounds, the heavy scent of dew and loamy earth grounding and disorienting him at the same time. That combination must have been what compelled him to call out for Petra. 

Rationally, he’d known there was no reason to actually do so. He hadn’t gone out seeking Petra, nor did he have any inkling that she might be there. Yet he did. Because he saw that damn tree, and his first impulse had been to call upon the only bit of stability he seems to have these days. It’s name just happens to be Petra and then she did appear and suddenly Claude’s decision to call her felt so _right_ and then she brought up leaving for Brigid after the war and how she wanted to take a husband back and--

Claude quickly sits up and runs his hands down his face. 

_Obviously_ the reason he can’t stop thinking about the whole thing because he wants to figure out who Petra may have been alluding to. That’s just his nature--puzzling out the intriguing. And _obviously_ this topic is intriguing because it means Petra, the fierce warrior princess of Brigid, has her eyes on a man of the Golden Deer. 

Which only presents a handful of possible solutions. Claude can’t imagine Raphael and Petra have much in common. Even while training they have different goals and prefer to do their own thing. Lorenz is certainly a candidate, but despite how much he’s grown over the years, he’s still every bit the epitome of a Fodlan noble. Claude’s had enough afternoons of climbing exercises to know Petra would rather keep her distance from Fodlan’s nobility. 

Who else did that leave? Ignatz? Now _that_ would certainly be an unexpected outcome-- 

\--and Claude’s _still_ dwelling on this?

_“It’s a riddle,”_ he tells himself. _“Just like any other. I just need to know the answer, and it will go away.”_

Believing that is easier than admitting that Claude, in his utterly foolish heart of hearts, wants to be the one. 

With a frustrated groan, he swipes his hands through his tousled hair and throws himself back onto the bed, welcoming the pain at the back of his head when it hits the old and lumpy mattress. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into him. 

Ah, who is he kidding. 

If he’s truly honest with himself, he’s desired Petra’s affections for quite some time. 

Claude lazily rolls over and sighs into the unforgiving mattress before hoisting himself off of it. Dusk is slowly giving way to night, casting shadows across the room. It’s not a particularly tidy space, what with books and scrolls of various realms of research strewn all over the wooden desk and floor. Claude takes a second to light a single candle at his bedside, then carries it as he precariously tiptoes across the mess over to the wash bin. 

His thoughts churn as he sets the candle down and begins to disrobe, pulling at the decorative armor pieces, cravat, and tediously wrapped fabric. They’re cast aside without much regard, a persona shed when no longer needed. Claude fills the stone basin with the water from the copper pitcher next to it, then leans over and splashes a palmful of water onto his face. The water itself is lukewarm, but refreshing all the same. He scoops another handful.

Claude isn’t sure when exactly his feelings for the Brigid princess manifested. When she’d transferred into the Golden Deer class, she’d caught his eye the same way Byleth had drawn his attention--a curiosity with the potential to be an asset in his schemes. She was a queen-to-be, and one didn’t let that kind of opportunity slip out of their hands. She was also an outsider, forced to assimilate in a way she didn’t want to--something Claude could easily sympathize with. 

But before Claude knew it, he’d come to find much more than a potential ally in Petra. He found solace in her presence, even when she poked fun and challenged him, which she was never afraid to do. Her forwardness and slow mastery of the Fodlan tongue meant she had little regard for carefully constructing her words. Petra was an open book that Claude enjoyed reading on peaceful, breezy afternoons, tangled in the branches of their shared tree.

Thinking back across the years, those moments had occurred as if almost carved out of time itself and apart from their thread of reality. As if every time they climbed those branches, they were climbing out of the skins they had the misfortune of being born into--the half Almyran heir to House Riegan and the kidnapped princess of Brigid--and existing simply as Claude and Petra. 

Those kinds of moments are a scarcity now in the thick of war. Maybe that’s why he’d called out to her this morning upon reaching their tree. The title and responsibilities of a wartime Duke of the Leicester Alliance is no easy burden to bear, and he finds himself itching to just be Claude again. The Claude he is when he’s with Petra. 

And then she’d brought up marriage this morning…

Claude clutches at the edges of the stone basin and frowns at his warped reflection. This is a dangerous line of thinking and he knows it. They’re at war, dammit. Faerghus is in shreds, the Alliance is held together by the most delicate of threads, and the Adrestian Empire is at their doorstep. 

Of course, it’s not like he _hasn’t_ entertained the idea of romance before. He openly flirts with Byleth, though now more out of a strategic necessity than anything else. He’d had this weird on-and-off crush on Lorenz, and had considered asking Marianne on quite a few occasions to come with him to Almyra when the war ended. 

But those had all been _ideas_ , more than anything else. Possibilities that, if they ever worked out, could result in a pleasant future—something akin to a dream of retiring to a remote beach and drinking while watching an endless sunset. 

And none ever sent Claude spiraling down a rabbit hole of torment and desire. 

The last of the water drops drip down his chin, and Claude grabs a washcloth to dab at his face. He sighs heavily and begins to undo the rest of his regal uniform—heavy coat, belt, trousers—until he’s down to a tunic and smallclothes. 

As he makes his way back to his bed, candle in hand, Claude takes a moment to muss his hair out of its usual do. A bath would do him some good, but all he wants to do right now is shut his brain off. 

Besides—even if he did allow himself to indulge in the fantasy of loving Petra, he doesn’t actually know if she even meant _him_ when she said she had an idea of who her perfect husband would be. It very well could be someone else. 

Because Petra is a smart woman, and ambitious to boot. Would she really allow herself to love the heir of another country? Her grandfather has a point—a union between Brigid and Fodlan would be politically beneficial. But if they win this war, Enbarr will no longer be the political capital. Derdriu is quite far from Brigid. 

And Almyra much, much farther. 

(Though nether Petra, nor anyone else, knows of this part of his plan.) 

Claude blows out the candle and slides under the covers of his old school bed. He stares at the ceiling and counts possible futures like sheep until his mind slows down enough to allow him a fitful sleep. 

And for every future—every different lifetime—he counts, he can’t seem to find a single one in which he and Petra could truly be together. 

* * *

Marianne finds him alone in Garreg Mach’s library, staring at an open book by an oil lamp but hardly reading it. 

“Claude?” she calls, her voice soft as always but resounding in the silence of the library. 

Claude shakes himself out of his stupor and looks up to find Marianne with her hands clasped in front of her, an expression of concern marking her features. 

“Oh! Marianne,” he says, gesturing for her to take a seat across from him. “Is something the matter? Did you need something?”

“No. Catherine and Judith were wondering where you were,” Marianne says, shaking her head. “The Knights are moving rubble to rebuild the main gate, and I’m not much help there, so I was sent to look for you.”

Claude chuckles and dog ears the page he’d been staring at in the book before gently shutting the tome. “Well, you’ve found me. Just doing some extra research. I’ll head down to meet Judith and Catherine in a minute.”

He says it with finality, but Marianne doesn’t move. Nor does she look any less concerned. 

“Is everything alright, Claude?” she asks. 

Claude shrugs and plays it casual with a grin. He’s faked it through worse sleep and even worse anxieties. 

“Of course! Why wouldn’t it be?” 

Then again, Marianne, however timid, has the gaze of an owl—somewhere between sharp and wisened, and definitely knowing. It’s a new development since their school days, and Claude is generally quite proud of her when he’s not on the receiving end of it. 

“You looked sad,” she states simply. “As if you’re being torn in two and can’t stitch yourself back together.”

Claude could absolutely deny Marianne’s rather accurate assessment, but he knows better than to insult her like that. There are days where they understand each other better than themselves, and this has become a pillar of the New Fodlan dream. 

“Well, that’s one way to put it, I suppose,” Claude sighs, dropping the disingenuous grin. 

Marianne nods, then hesitates. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she quickly starts. “But I’m...here to listen. If you wish.”

And _boy_ does Claude wish. This whole emotional crisis has been tugging at his gut, his lungs, his every waking thought since the night before. The last thing he needs is to show a delicate alliance of people any form of weakness on his part, but he figures he can trust Marianne with this. 

“I guess I just...I am torn. Between two futures,” Claude begins, trying to find the best way to summarize without revealing too much. “One is what I’ve spent all these years working towards. The other is...one that I really want, but have in good faith.” 

“I see,” Marianne replies, nodding. “Why must you choose between the two right now?”

This question takes Claude aback. He’d been prepared for her to ask why he couldn’t have the second future, but not why he is at a crossroads in the first place. 

“Because I’d have to sacrifice something at some point,” Claude finally says after struggling with an answer. “And the stakes are ones I’ve never had to gamble with before.”

It’s been easy up until now to prioritize his ambitions above all else. In all these years, that’s never been challenged until now. 

“I understand,” Marianne says, “but why must you choose _now._ ”

Claude frowns. “What do you mean?” 

Marianne folds her hands in her lap and casts her gaze down at the desk. 

“I don’t believe there are only two futures. You can try really hard to reach one, but I don’t think even the Goddess knows what will truly happen,” she says. “So making yourself choose between two futures as only a man is a bit futile, isn’t it?”

She looks back up, and her dark eyes are soft with empathy. She is silent for a heartbeat, then reaches over to tenderly place a slender palm over Claude’s hand. 

“Claude, you once told me not to dwell on a past I do not know,” Marianne continues, voice gentle but firm. “So now I will tell you: don’t chain yourself to a future you cannot touch.”

It’s an oddly morbid and existential way of putting things, but Claude can’t deny that it makes sense. Maybe it’s true that he can’t control the future no matter how much he plans for every outcome, every decision that needs to be made. In that case, it’s an incredibly hard truth to swallow, and Claude finds it painfully stuck in his throat. 

He turns his hand over and loosely curls his fingers around Marianne’s. Sighing, he hangs his head under the weight of his indecision--a gesture he’ll never allow anyone else to see outside this library. But sometimes, when all you do is bend, it feels good to break. 

“Then what should I do, Marianne?” he asks. “Just because I don’t know what the future will be doesn’t mean I won’t have to sacrifice a part of me at some point. I think...I think every future I can see for myself doesn’t allow me the luxury of keeping all of me.”

“If you’re destined to lose a part of yourself no matter what the future holds, then it’s all the more reason not to choose what you do based on that,” Marianne answers. “Live in the present, Claude, and work for your _dream._ Not your future. I promised you I would do so, and I hope you will do so with me.”

Claude breathes in deep and exhales until his lungs are empty. Marianne is right. Perhaps his choice isn’t between two futures, but between listening to his heart or casting it aside. The future will decide if it will accommodate his dream _and_ his desires.

* * *

He waits until the shroud of night envelopes the monastery completely before gathering the courage to leave his room. Claude maneuvers across the grounds expertly, having studied the Knights’ night patrol routes enough to make sure he won’t get caught. Technically, he doesn’t need to worry about running into anyone--he’s Duke von Riegan, the leader of the resistance against the Empire, and an incredibly familiar face. 

But he’s none of those things tonight. He left those titles behind and now makes his way down the corridor of the first floor dorms as only Claude. 

He counts the identical doors until he reaches the one he’s positive is Petra’s. Then he stops short and presses his forehead against the wood with a soft _thunk._

This is a bad idea. One of the worst he’s ever attempted to carry out. It would be wise to turn back and pretend he never even dreamt of being here. 

Though Claude knows now that doing so will be impossible. Every moment he’d spent earlier with Petra across from him, Petra holding steadfast as he challenged her tactical proposals, Petra training the Knights in unfamiliar battle techniques, a fire with the brilliance and sorrow of a dying star tugged at his gut. 

He’s too far gone to move on. He may as well take Marianne’s advice and succumb to the present. 

Claude picks himself up, steels his nerves, and knocks twice on the door. 

“Who is it?” comes a muffled response. 

Claude clears his throat and adjusts his cravat. “It’s me. Uh, Claude.”

The door opens not a second later to reveal Petra swathed in candlelight, regal in every sense of the word. She’s still in her day clothes, but her thick, fuschia hair is free from its normal braids and ponytail, cascading down her shoulders like a river of velvet. 

“Claude!” she exclaims, eyes bright. “What are you doing here? Are you needing something?”

In that instance, Claude almost forgets his words. _Almost._ He’s been in quite a few tough conversations to have garnered enough practice to navigate this one. 

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something. May I?”

He gestures to Petra’s room to indicate the private nature of his business here, and Petra nods. She steps aside to let him in, then closes the door. 

Petra’s room is clearly furnished to be a home away from home, all soft animal skin rugs, potted plants near the windows, and candles on every flat surface. Her homesickness is so palpable, it makes Claude’s heart twinge with a longing for a place he’s never known. In a way, it makes him feel a bit selfish for what he’s about to do. 

Petra crosses the room and perches on the edge of her bed. “Go on, I am listening.”

Claude swipes a hand through his hair, but holds Petra’s gaze. Their mutual respect is built on honesty and openness, after all. 

“I wanted to talk to you about what you said earlier when we spoke near the tree,” Claude starts. “You mentioned that you’d found someone who could be your perfect husband. That...that wouldn’t happen to be me, would it?”

The blush that blooms across Petra’s cheeks makes Claude’s heart stutter. He hadn’t realized just how breathless the feeling of hopefulness can be. 

Petra’s eyes never leave his. “I did not tell you who it was for a reason. Did you want it to be you?”

And here is the precipice of Claude’s gamble, the moment where all he can do is show his cards and hope he’s played fate well. He takes a step forward. 

“Honestly, I don’t think I realized how much I wanted it to be until now,” he says. 

Petra stands and also steps forward, meeting Claude’s gamble with her own. The blush still paints her cheekbones, but stands as defiant and confident as ever, and the extent to which Claude loves her for it makes his head spin. 

“Even for a man as clever as yourself, your intuition can still be clouded if you are just realizing it,” she teases. 

Claude shakes his head and chuckles. 

“I think it’s more that I didn’t want to realize it,” he responds, moving closer still. “Because I was afraid of what it would mean for me--and for you--if I did.”

He reaches for her bare hands and holds them loosely in his, a thrum of electricity humming down his spine as he does so. He ignores it--there’s still one last topic left to breach before he can give in. 

“For all that I want it to be me, it couldn’t really work between us, could it? You’ll be the queen of Brigid and,” Claude pauses, squeezing Petra’s hands in his. “I’m the duke now, but I never planned on stopping there. Petra, I’m going to become King of Almyra if I survive this war.”

Petra remains silent for a heartbeat, then frees one of her hands to gently cup Claude’s jaw. 

“I did not know of this, but I am also not surprised,” she says, thumb ghosting across his cheek. “You so often spoke of the futility of borders and breaking barriers. If I were in your stead, I would take this course of action as well.”

Claude nods, hating the way he leans into her palm but cherishing its warmth. “And if it works, all of Fodlan will then be between us. I would be the luckiest man alive I were to be your husband. But I don’t think I can be.”

“I understand,” Petra says softly, voice guarded as if steeled for a disappointment she already anticipated. “Yet you came here to tell me this when you could have simply feigned ignorance. Why?”

“That’s true. But loving you has made a fool out of me princess,” Claude breathes, standing utterly still despite the voice in his head telling him this is his last chance to pull away. 

“You and me both, I think,” Petra replies. 

Her gaze flickers from him momentarily as she hums pensively. Then she meets his eyes again and Claude can see that she’s made a decision. Petra frees her other hand from Claude’s, and a wave of disappointment laced with sorrow washes over him. He expects her to step back and end this conversation cordially. 

And there are soft lips on his.

Claude’s eyes widen in surprise, expecting numerous outcomes but not daring to hope for this one. 

Petra pulls away just as he’s about to kiss her back, but not out of hesitation or doubt. Claude can see clear as day that there is a predator’s hunger in her eyes. The fire in his gut and electricity in his nerves flare, a storm raging across his body and consuming his heart so fiercely he has no willpower left to resist being swept away. 

Oh, she could devour him whole, and he would let her. 

Claude’s hands move to her waist, Petra’s arms wrap around his neck, and their lips meet again with the force of everything they’d held back until now. Claude pulls her flush against his torso and nips at her bottom lip. He’s determined to savor every bit of this moment before it passes into a memory. 

Petra sighs against his mouth and opens her lips to allow Claude’s tongue to brush against her own. Claude takes the opportunity to commit the taste of her to memory, and Petra, in turn, releases his neck to slide her hands into his hair. Claude’s hands begin to wander lower, past the curve of her hips to settle on her ass. 

And he gasps with a pleasure he decides he could use more of when Petra tugs at his hair, pulling them apart. She uses the brief respite to jump and wrap her bare, sturdy legs around Claude’s waist, then reaches down to kiss him once more. Claude immediately hooks his fingers under her thighs and begins to walk them backwards towards her bed. He tips them over until Petra’s back hits the mattress, then climbs on as Petra shuffles back, her fingers hooked into his cravat. 

Those deft fingers make quick work of his tie pin while he clenches the tips of his gloves between his teeth and pulls them off, shirking them to the side. There’s a sense of urgency now as Claude leans forward to capture Petra’s lips again, and Petra meets him halfway while her hands now work to undo his coat. Claude assists as best he can without straying too far from Petra’s skin, and soon he’s down to only his tunic and trousers. 

He goes to kiss down her jawline, tugging on her jeweled earlobe playfully. 

“I know we’re in a monastery, so Goddess forgive me, but you’d give her a run for her money,” he whispers, breath hot against her ear. 

Petra lets out a breathy laugh and curls her fingers further into Claude’s hair. 

“I thought you did not believe in the Goddess.”

Claude moves lower and hums against her throat. 

“I don’t. But I’ve got to thank someone for giving me you.” 

“Claude, you say the most absurd things,” Petra teases, bringing his face to hers and bumping her nose against his. “My wonderful abnormality.” 

“Using my own words against me? How utterly fiendish,” Claude retorts. 

He bends down to bite the soft skin below Petra’s jaw, but not hard enough to leave a mark. All his kisses are gentle, _too_ gentle. He can’t bring himself to mark that which he may lose too soon. The thought makes his heart ache. 

Petra, however, seems to have no qualms about this. Hooking one leg around Claude’s waist, she swiftly turns them over so she’s straddling Claude and bends to leave open-mouthed kisses down his throat. She sucks at a particularly sensitive spot underneath Claude’s jaw, enticing an encouraging moan out of him. His hands roam up Petra’s back, bowstring-calloused fingertips digging into her shoulder blades before sliding up further to begin untying her blouse. 

Petra bites down at the juncture of his throat and shoulder, grinding against Claude’s hips and now hardening erection, and _holy fuck_ , Claude can’t seem to untie this blouse fast enough. Luckily, Petra catches on. She licks a stripe back up across the marks on his throat, then sits up and undoes the rest of her blouse herself. 

The moment she tosses the fabric to the floor, Claude reaches for her bare breasts, kneading them and flicking his thumb across pert nipples. Petra groans in satisfaction, and Claude wants nothing more than to kiss them, suck each nipple until she’s a moaning mess below him. 

But Petra seems to have other plans. Keeping him trapped between her thighs, she bends forward and resumes her previous ministrations, this time kissing further and further down until she reaches the lowest dip in tunic, just above his pectorals. 

“Do you like this tunic?” she asks, placing a kiss just beneath his collarbone. 

“I’m not particularly attached to it,” Claude replies, hands skimming up and down her sides. 

“Good,” Petra states, then proceeds to grab the collar of the tunic and rip it down the middle to expose Claude’s chest. 

Claude’s never experienced anything hotter in his life, and if the heat pooling in his lower regions could get any more intense, he’d probably combust. 

He groans to show his appreciation and cups her breasts again. Petra tosses him the sly grin of a minx, then moves to trail open-mouthed kisses down his broad chest. She stops just short of Claude’s naval before sitting back up. Her fingers dip beneath the waistline of his trousers, but don’t go further. 

“Is this okay, Claude?” Petra asks, slightly out of breath. She’s hardly one to doubt herself, but Claude can see indecision start to cloud her sharp eyes. 

She too has recognized that this is a point of no return, and wants to ensure Claude is absolutely sure of crossing that line with her. 

Claude settles one hand at Petra’s waist and uses the other to gently grasp her chin. 

“Petra,” he murmurs, throwing all of his adoration for the woman above him into his words. He shifts to sit up such that Petra is seated in his lap and face to face with him. “You can’t tie me up and take me to Brigid. So take me now. I come willingly.” 

He kisses her chastely. And again once more before moving to her neck, this time leaving no room for hesitation as he sucks a mark into his skin. 

The future be damned, he’ll be hers. 

Petra’s breath hitches. She whispers his name to the candlelit as if in prayer and presses a tender kiss to the side of his temple. Then she reaches into his trousers, past his smallclothes, and wraps a hand around his straining cock. 

Claude shudders against Petra’s shoulder, unconsciously bucking his hips as she strokes him, thumb occasionally coming up to brush over the sensitive tip. Claude traces her name into her skin with her tongue, moaning when she twists her wrist _just_ so. 

Petra moves to pull his clothes further down his hip to free his cock and the same time Claude slips a hand between the two of them. His fingers dive past the folds of her skirt to find the wetness between her legs. Her underwear is soaked in her desire for him, the thought only heightens the pleasure feels from Petra’s hand around him. 

Petra hums and presses her forehead against his, hand picking up its pace. Claude dips two fingers beneath her underwear and her folds, finding and rubbing circles around her clit in tandem with her strokes. A whine of pure ecstasy escapes Petra’s lips, and she rocks her hips against his fingers. 

The two of them are almost breathless, their pants echoing around the small dorm room. The fire in Claude’s gut tightens—Goddess above, it’s so good, but he needs more. Just a little more. 

“Petra,” he breathes. “Petra, I—“ 

As if she reads his mind, Petra slows her hand and pulls back, eyes dark pools that could drown his souls. 

“Claude,” she whispers. “If you are willing, let me take you now.” 

Claude can’t help but groan at her words and nods. He removes his fingers and lays back down on the bed. His hair is now a completely disheveled mess, strands flopping into his eyes and tickling his cheeks. But he couldn’t care less. He barely registers Petra climbing off of him and rifling through a drawer aside from the loss of warmth against his skin. 

She doesn’t leave him for long and returns to straddle him, skirt and underwear cast away, hands slick with a familiar smelling oil.

“Coconut oil?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow in amusement. 

“It’s the best I have,” Petra replies, swatting Claude’s thigh to draw attention away from her blush. “I use it for my hair.”

“Oh my sweet, beautiful Petra, you and me both,” Claude laughs. “How we haven’t taken Fodlan yet given it’s full of people without proper hair care is _astounding_ to me.” 

That draws out of Petra a giggle like bell chimes, and Claude resolves to put more effort into making her laugh more in the time they have left together. 

“I may have told Dorothea the secret before I transferred to the Golden Deer,” Petra jests, sliding up Claude’s body to press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose before returning to work her slick hands around his neglected cock. 

“Ah, so _that’s_ why the Empire is so resistant,” Claude hums. “I guess we’ll have to try harder then.”

Petra sidles up Claude’s torso and slips her fingers between his, linking their hands. 

“I like it when you say ‘we’,” she breathes against his lips and kisses him deeply and slowly. 

Then she sits up, one palm against Claude’s chest to steady herself, and lifts her hips to slowly sink down around him. 

Claude arches back as she does so, allowing the blissful heat seep into his bones and set his person on fire. He clenches his fingers around Petra’s, as if he can hold onto this feeling forever. This sense of becoming undone, disrobed and laid bare as Claude and _only_ Claude. He is no duke, no king-to-be, no Riegan, no leader of a resistance in a war because there is none. There is only this man giving all that he is to the woman above him: Petra and _only_ Petra. 

Petra takes a moment to adjust to the sudden fullness, then begins to move. Her movements are tentative at first, but evolve into a rhythm, rocking her hips up and down Claude’s dick in earnest. 

She rides him at a pace that is by no means slow, rough with the same sense of urgency and pent up affections as their second kiss searing through their bodies. Claude rolls his hips up to meet her halfway, savoring each moan he coaxes out of her with every particularly good thrust. 

Petra leans forward to claim Claude’s lips in a kiss, though it’s sloppy and open-mouthed. But Claude can’t care less because Petra is breathlessly chanting his name against his lips, consuming his soul alive just as her eyes had promised earlier. He feels as though if he were to die on the battlefield tomorrow then it will be happily, for he will have this to remember: Petra saying his name over and over again with a love that makes him feel whole despite how much he’s losing himself.

The heat in his belly reaches an almost painful intensity, and Claude knows he won’t last much longer. 

“Petra,” he moans, thrusts becoming more erratic as he desperately chases his orgasm, “I--I’m almost--”

Petra pulls off him just in time, and when Claude comes, he feels utterly wrecked, like a ship torn apart in a most merciless and glorious storm. 

It’s a few seconds before he catches his breath, chest heaving as he attempts to float back down from his high. He looks up at Petra now sitting at his knees, eyes still dark and heavy with lingering lust. 

“You’ve made an absolute mess out of me, Princess,” Claude chuckles. “Let me return the favor.”

Before Petra can answer, Claude mimics her earlier maneuver with his leg around her waist and flips them around so she’s pinned below him. 

“You wicked man, that’s not fair,” she pouts, though she does little to change their position. Instead, she brings her fingers back up to slide into Claude’s hair, massaging his scalp. 

Claude grins and pecks her lips, then her chin, and down to her collarbone. 

“What can I say? I’m a quick study,” he retorts. 

He travels further, finally able to give her breasts some appreciation. He kisses the underside of her right breast, then sucks the pert nipple into his mouth, lathing it with his tongue in a tantalizing slow manner. He moves on to her left, giving it the same attention, and Petra writhes beneath him. She bucks her hips with impatience, prompting Claude to finally move further still lest he be deemed cruel again. 

When he reaches the space between her legs, Claude trails sweet, soft kisses up her inner thigh, stopping just shy of his goal.

_“Claude,”_ Petra chastises in frustration, fingertips digging into his scalp. 

Before she can say anything more, Claude hooks both of her knees over his shoulders and straightens his back, pulling Petra up with him so her hips are in the air while her upper back arches into the mattress. Her surprised gasp quickly devolves into a low moan when Claude _finally_ teases her clit with his tongue. 

Petra releases his hair and makes for the sheets, clenching them in an iron grip as she melts in Claude’s grip. Claude swirls his tongue over her clit at the same enticing pace as earlier, drinking in the quivering of her thighs as they threaten to close around his neck. 

As he slips his tongue inside her and elicits the loudest, most sweet sound from Petra all night, Claude thinks suffocating between her thighs like this wouldn’t be the worst way to go. 

_“Spirits_ , Claude I-- _please,”_ Petra cries, legs tightening around Claude. 

Claude only continues to fuck her with his tongue, testing how far he can go before Petra truly does crush his head with her thighs. _Goddess above,_ why is that such a tantalizing thought? 

But his desire to see Petra come undone in his hands outweighs his wish for a most blissful death, and Claude pulls out to give one last suck to her clit. 

Petra comes with a silent cry, body trembling with an orgasm that looks just as intense as the one Claude just had. The sight of her ecstasy is almost enough to convince Claude that he’s found religion and it’s right before him. 

Carefully, Claude unhooks Petra’s knees from his shoulders and lays her lower body back onto the mattress. He gives her a few seconds to recuperate and takes the opportunity to find a washcloth, cleaning his earlier mess off his stomach. 

When he returns to the bed, he finds Petra with heavy lidded eyes and a peaceful smile. She reaches for Claude, and he can’t help but return her smile with his own fond one. Taking her hand, Claude kisses the inside of her palm and climbs onto the bed, sidling up next to her. Petra welcomes him at her side and tucks herself against his chest and under his chin. Her thick, beautiful hair splays out like a bloodstain behind her, and Claude can’t resist running his fingers through it. Petra sighs under his menstrations and huddles closer, affectionately brushing her nose against Claude’s chest. 

They remain silent for a while, neither feeling pressured to say anything as they drink in the moment they know they may not have again. 

“Claude,” Petra finally murmurs, breaking the terribly finite silence. 

“Hm?” Claude hums. 

“I know that it may be impossible for us to marry,” Petra begins, “but I am thinking that, when the war is over and I return to Brigid, I will not be all of myself.”

She nudges Claude’s chin and looks up at him, gaze thoughtful and innocently serious in a manner that is so _Petra._

“Because you will have taken a piece of me back to Almyra. And I will hate you for it.”

Claude can’t help but laugh at that and cranes his neck to kiss Petra’s forehead. 

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” he replies, “you’ll still be whole. Because the part of you that’s missing will hold the piece of me that you’ll take back to Brigid.”

Petra laughs with him. Because it’s easier to laugh than to consider what that really means for them. 

“Then I will cherish that piece of Claude forever,” she says. “And I will tell the people of Brigid of the great King of Almyra, who helped us free Brigid from the Empire.”

“And I’ll tell people of the tenacious Queen of Brigid,” Claude adds fondly. “And how she gave courage to the resistance to always do what was right by others, despite how dark the times seemed.”

The thought dries like a rock in Claude’s throat and his heart begins to ache with the pain he’d hoped to keep aside for just a little while longer. 

“Petra, I wish I could give you better,” he whispers into her hair. “I wish I could live by your side until time itself ran out. I wish I weren’t a duke and you weren’t a princess, and we were simply Claude and Petra because I...I love you. More than I’ve loved anything in my life.”

Claude cups Petra’s cheek with his hand and guides her face to his until the tips of their noses touch. 

“If I have to lose a part of myself, then I will gladly lose it to you,” he says. 

“I love you too,” Petra declares. “And if we are fated to remain apart in this life, then I pray the spirits are kind enough to bring us together in the next.”

Claude smiles at the sentiment and tips Petra’s chin to kiss her. This time, there’s no flame, no urgency, no playfulness. This kiss is a seal, a promise. A vow in place of marriage ones that they will no longer be _just_ Claude, _just_ Petra, but Claude and Petra. Petra and Claude. 

They drift into a peaceful sleep in each other’s arms, and one by one, the candles burn out. The night that envelopes them is a kind one, one that will continue to exist even after the war is over, undisturbed, untouched. One that promises to watch over them should they have the fortune to lay in a lover’s embrace again. 

Because there are a finite number of outcomes for the war, but an infinite number of futures beyond it. 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> this entire fic was just a plug for coconut oil. white people: go get some coconut oil for your hair. it will save your life. 
> 
> in all seriousness, i can't tell you how much i feel for these two. i even tweeted an analysis of their supports and how the tree is a metaphor for their feelings for each other. so! if you liked this and would like to scream about petraclaude with me, here's my [twitter!](https://twitter.com/sunshinejock)


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